On Bitches, Broads, Dames, and Mothers of One Kind and Another

During my formative years, the words bitchy and bitching eventually made their way into my vocabulary, along with use of the verb to bitch, meaning to complain. Although I learned early on what disapproval, disappointment, disdain and disregard looked and felt like, hearing someone call another person a bitch wasn’t something I encountered until I was working as a waitress in a bar/restaurant while attending college. A woman I worked with had an ex-boyfriend who’d loudly and publicly threatened to “kill the bitch”; and one night he followed through on his threat by shooting her in the head and indeed killing her. It was rumored by those who knew her well that he’d forced her to her knees to service him at gunpoint before pulling the trigger and taking her life. There was also waiter at the restaurant who called me “dear” until I told him I had a name I’d prefer he use, and he would bandy the word “bitch” about when referring to customers and lovers who’d displeased or angered him. Other than that and a troll at Trooper York’s who lashed out at me after finding himself cornered, I’ve only heard of a few others (women who appear to abuse/misuse power such as Hillary or Kamala) referred to as such until recently, here at Lem’s, where that epithet showed up as a response in stories told about women whose behavior displeased and disappointed. Something about that response didn't sit well with me. When I traced my discomfort to back to my first experience of it, I realized it was strongly linked to abuse and disrespect in my mind. (As for the word “epithet” it took me a while to find that as well, as I knew it was out there somewhere, but kept coming up with epitaph instead which didn’t work, where epithet does.)

Broads and Dames entered my vocabulary via the record player and became associated with worldly, but semi-respectful, fun loving men who smoke, drank, and danced, all of which were not condoned in my community, though we were allowed to buy and play records. Those men appeared to embrace love and nurse broken hearts while serving their country and getting through life as best they could, and I was ok with both terms, after learning that broads were broad where a broad should be broad and there was nothing like a dame. Later in life, it was something of a surprise to break out of musical lala land and discover the bigger than life broads and beautiful dames presented in the movies and on television were in reality women with histories that often revealed early childhood abuse and trauma, along with strings of lovers and broken marriages, women who’d looked for and found meaning and admiration in acting, along with a way to survive. As for Mothers of One Kind and Another, I’ve learned to honor and accept the glory and the power a mother has and holds for good or ill. I was 32 when I became a mother and committed to enter the role and attend to the tasks and pitfalls involved to the best of my ability (which included some deficits) with results that to this day delight, surprise, intrigue and bring tears of joy to my eyes. Four years ago, on Jan 15, 2015 I wrote a poem entitled, Would I Go To Your Funeral? to express and work through the quandary I was in with regard to my relationship with my mother. In it I described my experience of her, and ended with this quote from the book that had been read at our family dinner table everyday of my life til I was fifteen. “O keep my soul and deliver me: let me not be ashamed; for I put my trust in thee. Let integrity and uprightness preserve me; for I wait on thee”. A year after that, also in January, I awoke from a dream about my mom with the words, “Go see your mother” disturbingly and clearly in mind, and when I stopped by her apartment that same day without her permission following a two year estrangement, I found her in decline, at the point of needing outside attention and intervention. For the next two years I oversaw her care along with Hospice, and on January 18, 2018, I was with her when she finally and quietly took her last breath. The morning of her funeral, I woke up with the words I wanted to share coming to mind and I, who’d almost four years to the day had previously wondered if I would go to her funeral, was able to sincerely deliver a respectful eulogy honoring her life and legacy. The journey that allowed me to stand there and speak with grace and truth, required me to work through, acknowledge and accept the meanness and unkindness along with the brokenness and beauty, self-sacrifice and self-centeredness, mothering and lack of nurture that was part of my experience of her as my mother. Behind, under, and around all that took place was the power of love, moving us both along with and without our awareness. I don’t know what to make of this, other than to be grateful for that which I do not fully understand, but receive as real and good. Beyond flowers, cards, phone calls, or dinners out; regard, respect, humor and the willingness to openly and honestly relate are the gifts that matter most to me now along with a shared awareness and appreciation for the presence, power and mystery of lovingkindness and tender mercy.